


the road to gay chicken (is paved with bad intentions)

by canticle



Series: Pegoryu Week 2018 [4]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Food Sharing, Frottage, Gay Chicken, M/M, Porn Watching, The Pocky Game, Touching, all in the name of gay chicken, hanging out naked and playing video games? no big deal, stripping with your best friend is no big deal, there are two kinds of people and i am the second kind, watching gay porn? super chill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-05 09:42:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15167924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canticle/pseuds/canticle
Summary: They don’t talk about it, not between themselves or to the others. Nothing in their outward interactions change— except for the gay chicken incidents slowly ramping up.(That’s what he finds when he googles “accidentally kissed my best friend help” late that night. It sounds….it makes sense. It’s a lot of what they do. And if it’s just a game, just another challenge, there’s no way he’s going to back down from it.)Pegoryu Week Day 4: Rivals!





	the road to gay chicken (is paved with bad intentions)

**Author's Note:**

> ngl i'm sick of looking at this

1.

If Kurusu Akira is anything, he’s an enabling little shithead with a competitive streak a mile wide and a smirk that makes Ryuji want to vandalize buildings. He’s always pushing just that little bit harder, just a little bit faster, asking for just a little bit more. And he’s  _ worth it. _ Ryuji wants to give it to him, wants to surpass him, wants Akira to feel as fiercely for him as he does, wants to stop chasing his heels and run beside him (or even ahead of him.)

And all of this is what boils down to the two of them kneeling on Akira’s bed, a strip of pocky methodically being demolished between the two of them millimeter by millimeter.

It’s so stupid— Ann had mentioned something about pocky games during lunch, and Akira’s eyes had lit up, and Ryuji honest to god couldn’t stop himself from blurting out a challenge. The rest is history; the rest is Akira’s grey eyes wicked and smug behind the lenses of his glasses, Akira’s breaths puffing out of his nose and brushing across Ryuji’s cheeks— 

— Akira reaching up to grab the back of his neck, wrapping a hand around him to keep him steady, and striking like a seagull going after a french fry. In the sudden silence, the  _ snck _ of his teeth snapping the pocky off barely a centimeter from his lips rings out like a gunshot, and when he pulls back Ryuji has maybe a half-inch left clenched between his teeth.

It’s  _ bullshit _ , is what it is; he demands a rematch immediately, yelling loud enough that Akira shushes him even as he laughs. This time he moves forward aggressively, planting his hands on Akira’s knees and crunching his way up the pocky without hesitation.

Then Akira dips his head and cracks the pocky in half.

Ryuji lurches forward faster than he should. Their foreheads bonk together, toppling them both over. He lands braced on his forearms, pressed to Akira from chest to thigh.

Their mouths are crushed together. Akira still has the pocky in the corner of his lips. Without hesitation, Ryuji snatches it.

The sound of it crunching between his teeth is very loud in the sudden quiet of the attic. So is the sound of his heart pounding in his ears when he realizes just what position he’s in, just what he’s done. He scrambles up apologizing, but there’s a heated look in Akira’s eyes that stops the words in his throat.

Akira demands a rematch.

Ryuji finds out that the inside of his mouth tastes like chocolate.

  
  
  


2.

They don’t talk about it, not between themselves or to the others. Nothing in their outward interactions change— except for the gay chicken incidents slowly ramping up.

(That’s what he finds when he googles “accidentally kissed my best friend help” late that night. It sounds….it makes sense. It’s a lot of what they do. And if it’s just a game, just another challenge, there’s no way he’s going to back down from it.)

The summer starts building hot and humid; on days they don’t go to the metaverse and Akira’s not busy with his handful of other duties, he and Ryuji spend hours together, either up in the attic or out in the streets in Shibuya. They go to the arcade and luxuriate in the air conditioning or hang out in the underground mall, and once or twice Akira even convinces him to go study in the diner with him.

Today they’re out on the streets again, just walking. Akira’s got one of those big soft serve ice creams; he and Ryuji alternate taking licks off of.

Ryuji’s already had his tongue on the inside of Akira’s mouth (accidentally). This is nothing to be weirded out by. Even when Akira flicks his eyes over to make sure that Ryuji’s watching and just...sticks the entire top of the ice cream in his mouth. 

It’s an intriguing sight, the way his lips are stretched around it like— oh  _ shit. _ This is— they’re starting up again? Here? In the middle of Shibuya??

There’s a light in Akira’s eyes that looks like challenge when he pulls away with the top few inches of ice cream still in his mouth, and Ryuji’s not going to let that stand. He grabs the hand Akira’s holding the cone in and pulls it over to himself, licking right over where Akira’s mouth had just been. A bit of soft-serve is melting down the side of the cone; he pulls their joined hands up to lap at it, watching Akira’s eyes the whole time.

When he leans in to take another lick, Akira’s head is right there. So is his mouth; their noses almost brush as he swipes his tongue across the opposite side.

And again. This time, he thinks he feels something brush past his lower lip, sending a jolt of heat up his spine.

When he pulls back, Akira’s eyes are crinkled in mirth, He points at a spot on Ryuji’s face, then gets frustrated when Ryuji doesn’t find it instantly and reaches out himself.

His thumb is a little rough against Ryuji’s bottom lip, swiping away the drop of melted ice cream. His tongue is a quick flash of pink, there and then gone again, when he licks it off his thumb. Ryuji can’t keep his eyes off it, or his mind later that night.

_ [okay google, my best friend basically indirect frenched me this afternoon during gay chicken, is that allowed] _

[no results found]

  
  


3.

Nothing changes. Everything stays the same. They eat lunch together, and his eyes don’t linger on the way Akira’s lips curl up at the sides when he’s looking all particularly self-satisfied. They fight together, and Ryuji slaps his palm for a baton pass with vicious energy, feeling the flow of the battle curling around them, pushing them higher, pushing them farther, always together.

They run around the school track and they train at the gym together, standing in front of the bathroom mirrors half-dressed and slick with sweat, admiring the fruits of their hard labors. Ryuji’s filling back out nicely; even without the track team, his body remembers what it was like to be an athlete, and his conditioning is coming along nicely. The lines of his shoulders and back, the pleasant ache in his calves only slightly marred by the burning pain in his thigh, all on display.

That’s one thing he has up on Akira, at least; he might be strong enough to swing himself up onto a ledge one handed or to perform all sorts of dumb stunts in the metaverse, but his body trends towards long, lean lines, a dagger to Ryuji’s baseball bat. He could bulk up like Ryuji, but it would take him a lot of time and some really specialized exercises, and it wouldn’t be worth it. Their strengths lie in completely different areas. Ryuji’s a bludgeoner. Akira’s an assassin.

Akira’s also staring into the mirror, rubbing his hands across his cheeks. “Feel my skin,” he demands suddenly, turning to Ryuji. “I exfoliated with a new scrub last night. I’m smooth like a baby. It feels amazing.”

He does, runs his fingers across the line of Akira’s cheek and throat. “Shit,” he says, impressed. “That’s not bad.”

“Yeah. Used it after I shaved my junk, too.”

Now that’s a can of worms he desperately doesn’t know how he feels about opening. He swallows and flicks his eyes up to the mirror, only to catch Akira’s smirk. Shit. It’s a gay chicken thing. “Yeah? Smooth down there, too?”

Akira’s smirk widens; he pulls the waistband of his boxer shorts and sweatpants out and down just far enough that Ryuji can see his hipbones and the barest hint of what must be the base of his dick. No hair.

Well, if that isn’t an invitation….He reaches over and slips his fingers across Akira’s abs (no fair, that he’s been doing this for so short a time and he’s already getting such nice definition) and down. It’s...definitely smooth.

Akira jerks— their eyes meet, and there’s the faintest hint of a blush starting on his cheeks.

Ryuji grins, wide and smug. Looks like he wins this round.

  
  
  


4.

It keeps going.

Eating off each other’s chopsticks at lunch, Joker plopping into his lap on the Monabus for no reason at all— the gay chicken stakes just keep rising, until they find themselves alone in the bathhouse after a long, hard Mementos run, sweaty and exhausted and full of adrenaline that’s slow to fade. Ryuji’s stifling a yawn behind one hand when he catches Akira popping open the buttons of his polo one by one, unbearably slowly; he meets Ryuji’s eyes, and there’s a moment when something swoops low in his gut.

There’s nothing to do but retaliate. If he’s gonna be stupid sexy Joker, Ryuji’s gonna clap back with whatever he can.

He stares Akira down as he reaches behind himself to snag the collar of his tank top, shrugging it up and over his head in a single slow motion. He catches the tail end of Akira’s mouth starting to curl up in his familiar cat-like smirk and waggles his eyebrows in response. It’s getting easier and easier to fall into this back-and-forth, to let his inhibitions slip away when faced with that smirk, to go all out. When Akira pops the button on his jeans, Ryuji pulls the zipper down on his shorts and lets them sag off his hips. When Ryui lets them drop, Akira kicks his pants off and hooks his fingers into the waistband of his underwear.

He’s meeting Ryuji’s eyes dead on as he lets them slide to the floor, standing with a hand on his hip and his eyebrow raised like he’s got nothing to be ashamed of.

...He really doesn’t. 

Ryuji keeps his eyes above the neck, a sudden tension tightening his shoulders, and watches Akira smirk when he realizes he’s won this round.

He can’t help but look down when Akira turns to sling the towel around his waist, though. God damn. All those jumps and leaps in the metaverse do a dude some good for his glutes.

  
  
  
  
  


5.

It shouldn’t be surprising that stripping in the bathhouse leads to stripping other places, and yet when Akira pulls off his shirt with no fanfare as they’re playing video games Ryuji can’t help but make a noise of surprise. “You just feel like gettin’ nakey or somethin, dude?” he says, leaning out of the way as Akira lobs the shirt towards his laundry basket.

“You can’t tell me that you’re not sweltering too,” Akira says with furrowed brows. He’s not wrong; even just in his tank top and shorts he’s sweating up here. The ceiling fan does barely anything to cool them down, just stirs the air into sluggish movement. “You’ve seen it all before. I’m not a prude. If you want to, you can too.” And he kicks his jeans off like there’s nothing to it, just...hanging out in his underwear. Right next to Ryuji.

Like it’s no big deal!

God  _ damn, _ he’s good at gay chicken. There’s no way Ryuji can’t respond to that; Akira doesn’t look over as he pulls his shirt off over his head, but Ryui can see the corner of his mouth curling up lazy and wicked.

(He ends up in his underwear too. It  _ is _ marginally more comfortable, and after the first half hour he barely notices his almost-nakedness anymore.)

  
  


6.

It’s not his fault that they broke the chair, and Ryuji is going to maintain that until his dying breath. The furniture in the attic is hit or miss at the best of times, and that one wobbly leg was so sketchy that eventually he just shoved off it and it snapped, sending him falling ass-backwards to the floor. Akira had laughed so hard he cried, which made it almost worth it, but it does suck now that there’s only one chair. Sitting on the couch doesn’t work in this heat— the fabric is gross and tacky to the touch, and he feels uncomfortable getting his ball sweat on Boss’s furniture anyway.

Akira’s solution? Share the remaining chair.

He narrows his eyes when the subject comes up— for one thing, it won’t help in the slightest to beat the heat, but Akira argues that away by saying at least they’ll both be in the direct stream of the fan; for the next, they’re two growing boys, and as sturdy as the chair is it probably doesn’t deserve both of them piling on at once.

But there’s no standing in the way of Kurusu Akira when he wants something— and there’s no standing in the way of Ryuji when he realizes there’s a challenge attached. Just another step in gay chicken— it’s just  _ Akira, _ it’s no big deal having him mostly naked in his lap.

Really. It’s not.

It’s actually kind of comfortable, when it comes down to it— Akira is a warm and heavy weight on his thighs, but he’s just that much shorter that Ryuji can hook his chin over his shoulder to watch the screen, his forearms braced across Akira’s lap so he can hold his controller more easily. Today they’re trying to play one of Akira’s older fighting games—  _ try  _ being the operative word. The controllers are sticky in the heat, and Akira is a cheating little fuck.

The next time he spam-attacks a move that sends Ryuji flying off the screen, Ryuji tweaks one of his nipples in response. “Stop bein’ a dick and just play the damn game!”

Akira shoots bolt upright with an  _ eep _ that has Ryuji in stitches. “Can you not?!”

“Can you not be a dick?” He does it again, laughing harder when Akira slaps at his hands like a little girl. “C’mon, chill! It’s like y’ain’t never had a purple nurple before!”

“I’ve had a purple nurple, fuck off!” What a conversation to have with Ryuji’s fingers on his nipples, circling them, flicking them with the edge of his thumb, pinching down just to hear Akira squawk.

The next time he does it, though, Akira grinds back into his lap with a dirty-sounding huff, and Ryuji abruptly realizes he’s hard. 

Shit.

Does that mean he loses?

Oh,  _ hell _ no. He’s not giving up until Akira does. 

So when Akira settles back down on his lap Ryuji lets him get comfortable, waits till he’s firmly entrenched and focused. Then he blows in his ear.

Thus begins his trench warfare— carefully timed puffs to make him squirm, holding him down tight on his lap so he can’t edge away. He bounces Akira on his lap once at a crucial moment in a boss battle, and Akira yelps as the controller slips out of his hand and his character is mercilessly slaughtered.

Every time, Akira makes disgruntled, discontented noises. Every time, he doesn’t tell him to stop, just slaps at his hands or makes some sort of disparaging comment. It makes Ryuji bold, makes him grin behind his head where he knows Akira can’t see him.

It turns a corner when Ryuji teasingly snaps the band of his underwear and Akira makes a noise like he’s been punched. “Shit, sorry,” he apologizes immediately, smoothing his fingers around the edge of the band and— 

— meeting erect cock trapped underneath. “Shit,  _ sorry, _ ” he says again, much more fervently, like it’s not weird for them both to be hard, like it’s not weird for his fingers to be resting delicately on a thin band of elastic between himself and his best friend’s dick.

He should move. His fingers. He presses in just a bit instead, just long enough that Akira sucks in a shaky breath. It spikes through his ears and down his spine in a way that he’ll think about later. When he’s alone. In his room. In the dark.

Either way, it’s probably time to chill for the evening; he calls that day a draw.

 

7.

“Hey,” Ryuji says two nights later, turning to look at Akira in the glow of his laptop. The light is stark; it catches on the frames of his glasses and the edge of his nose, leaving the rest of his face in shadow. “Tell me what kinda porn you like.”

It’s a valid question— the cafe’s been closed for hours, Morgana’s sleeping downstairs in a huff, it’s two hours past midnight and they’ve had enough sugary drinks to give a horse diabetes, trying to combat exhaustion with fervent, futile efforts to make the night go on longer. A typical teenage boy sleepover, and here’s a typical teenage boy question. 

It’s not like they haven’t been leading up to it, watching dumb titty-and-ass anime on Akira’s shitty laptop, laughing at the animation, making crude jokes they wouldn’t dream of saying out loud in the daylight. There’s no reason his mouth should be going dry now that the question hangs in the air, now that Akira’s cheeks are dusting with pink and he’s biting his lip.

Shit. He really, really likes the way Akira bites his lip. He  _ really _ likes the pink on his cheeks.

“That, uh,” Akira finally says, low and a little hoarse, “that’s kind of a loaded question, isn’t it? Why, what kind do  _ you _ like?”

_ Goddamn _ . There’s nothing better than when Akira plays along with his dumb shit. It fills Ryuji with confidence, enough to drag the computer towards him, to type something well-known into the address box. “Somethin’ like this?”

“Turn the sound down!” Akira hisses in a panic, slapping at his hands. It makes Ryuji cackle even as he scrolls the volume down low, even as the video pops up. No blurry pixelated shit for them tonight; it pops open already halfway into the action, the dude with his hands on the chick’s hips, her face already screwed up and blissful. It’s one of his go-to vids, but when he looks over Akira is just….watching.

Not interested, not  _ disinterested _ , per se, but definitely not into it. It makes Ryuji squirm a little, like his tastes are being judged. “Not your style?”

“Mnh.” He shrugs. “It’s not….”

“It’s not?”

“It’s just kinda...unrealistic.”

“Whaddaya mean?” 

“Look at her.” He points at the girl, who’s now got a leg hiked over the guy’s shoulders. She’s got a great ahegao goin’ on, eyes crossed, mouth open, but Akira’s nose is wrinkled in what looks like disgust. “She just...girls don’t do that in real life.”

“They don’t?” A sudden, more important thought strikes him. “Wait, you  _ know _ that?? How do you know? Aki—  _ Akira _ , have you fu—”

“Keep it down!” he hisses again, all but climbing on top of Ryuji to slap his hand over his mouth. “If Morgana comes up here and sees this—”

Ryuji grabs his wrist and yanks it away just enough to whisper, loud and obnoxious, “Okay, but  _ have you?? _ ”

God, he’s  _ so cute _ when he blushes. “I— once?? It was— I went to a party, this kid’s parents were gone so they dragged out the alcohol and...there was a girl, and she and her boyfriend were going at it on the couch, and everyone was cheering them on…”

“Woah...country parties are badass, man.”

“Yeah, I guess. But— it just puts stuff like this into perspective, you know? It’s all marketed. It’s meant to be consumed and then disregarded. There’s no heart in it. It’s like...flat soda.” 

It makes Ryuji sit down on his heels and actually consider the thought. “I mean….I guess you’re right, ma—  _ hold the EFF up. _ ” The wording hits him like a bolt of lightning, and he grabs Akira’s shoulder, shaking him vigorously. “You— you said you— did you—  _ with _ them?!”

“Um,” Akira says, and swallows. 

“ _ Akira. _ This is the most important question I’ve ever asked you, holy  _ shit, _ did you— have a  _ threesome _ at your badass country party?!”

“It wasn’t a big deal!” It comes out muffled because his face is buried in both hands now, and it’s adorable. Ryuji can’t reconcile the guy trying to burrow his way into his own arms with someone having a  _ threesome _ in  _ public _ at a  _ party. _

“It’s a  _ huge _ deal!” he half-screeches instead, shaking him harder. “Dude! Did you— what, get her from both ends? Was it hot?!” 

“It, um….” There’s a long pause, long enough that Ryuji shakes him again, much more gently this time. “We, uh...well…..It hurt a little at first, because we didn’t use enough lube, but…”

“Huh? I thought girls just did it naturally?”

“They do, but…” He looks at the wall, at the computer, at the ceiling, takes a deep breath, and says all in a rush, “but guys don’t.” 

Being 2 AM, it takes Ryuji a long, long moment to connect the dots. “So, you mean you—” he blurts before he can stop himself. “Holy  _ shit _ . I didn’t know you were gay.”

“Pan,” Akira corrects, red as Panther’s catsuit and still making deliberate eye contact with the glow in the dark stars on the rafters. “It hurt a little, but then it didn’t. It was...really good.”

“Huh,” Ryuji says, and falls very, very quiet as he thinks this over. “So, like...both?”

“Both,” Akira says with a nod.

“Never thought about... _ both _ before.”

“Both is good. Here.” Still steadfastly not looking at him, Akira reaches for the computer, fumbles at the keyboard for a bit, then pushes it so it’s angled more towards Ryuji. “Just...look.”

It’s...two guys. They’re both naked. There’s two naked guys, and they’re kissing, and they’ve each got a hand on each other’s dicks, jerkin’ each other slow and easy, and all of a sudden Ryuji’s mouth is as dry as bone.

It’s not like he’s never looked before— the guys are always there in the stuff he watches, obviously, but they’re usually not the focus. It’s always the girl, bouncing breasts and glazed, pleasured expressions and pussy stretched wide— but this.

One of the guys makes a sound on screen, his breaths coming in short pants as he jerks his hips into the other one’s hand. Ryuji licks his lips and swallows, turning just in time to catch Akira whip his head back around. “What?” he asks, a little hoarsely.

Akira makes a noise in the back of his throat. “Just...wanted to make sure this was okay.”

“...yeah. Yeah, man. It’s...it’s fine.” One of the guys on screen comes, and the noise he makes sends a white-hot jolt of arousal down his spine. He hastily repositions himself, lifts the knee between himself and Akira, because….shit. He’s definitely getting hard. 

Gay chicken is one thing, but this...this is another thing entirely. Ryuji’s got some things he needs to evaluate later.

Much later. For now… “So, uh,” he says a little awkwardly, “you...got any more of those?”

Akira does. 

There’s one of a guy getting a massage with a real “special ending.” There’s one of a guy holding himself and another guy in the same hand, rubbing their dicks up against each other with mindless intensity. There’s one of a guy getting edged to within an inch of his life, and Ryuji’d never thought that’d be hot until now, sitting sweltering and rock-hard on Akira’s bed with Akira shifting furtively beside him.

The guy in the video makes a noise like he’s aching, like he’d give anything to just get off, and it hits Ryuji like a punch in the gut. He groans and doubles over, bending to press his face into the mattress. “Akira…”

“Yeah?” Akira says, thin and strained. The bed shifts beside him. Ryuji closes his eyes, as if it would make his boner be any less obvious.

“I’m… Look, dude, I’d go downstairs, but if Morgana saw me like this I think he’d drag me into the metaverse and  _ kill _ me.”

There’s a laugh, low and rough. “Yeah. I-if you want to, you can just…”

“What, right here? Right now?”

“Would it make you feel better if I did too?”

It sorta would. “Sure,” Ryuji grits out, his hand already curling into his lap, the temptation of release too much to pass up.

It doesn’t take long for either of them. He hears Akira mutter something under his breath, hears him exhale in a long, low whine and then gasp for breath like he’s drowning. Something lands on his ankle— Akira’s hand— it curls around his calf and Ryuji sees white.

They don’t speak, panting for breath, sweat cooling on the backs of their necks, the ceiling fan chugging overly-loud above them. When he stretches out on the couch a few minutes later, he can still feel the phantom touch on his ankle like a burning brand.

  
  


8.

The game simmers to a halt over the next few days, between a flurry of Mementos requests coming in all at once and a palpable awkwardness between the two of them. 

It’s not the whole ‘jacking it to gay porn together’ thing, either. It happened, sure. Ryuji can put it past him if Akira can. They haven’t spoken about it; they haven’t really...spoken.

Does Ryuji want to?

Kinda.

This whole gay chicken thing… it weighs on him. He’s had the taste of Akira in his mouth, the weight of him on his lap. He knows what he sounds like in the dark.

At what point does it stop being gay chicken and start being something else?

He’ll be damned if he knows, but Akira finally invites him over again for a good solid afternoon of video games, so he puts it out of his mind as much as he can.

It’s raining today, muggy and miserable. Akira strips down to his boxers in the first twenty minutes or so, leaving Ryuji sweltering and shifting back and forth on the couch  until Akira shoots him an odd look.

He doesn’t look away as Ryuji sheds his shorts and tank top, either. It gives him a weird flutter in the pit of his stomach, more so when he flops into the chair and Akira immediately comes to position himself on his lap.

He says it’s because anything’s more comfortable than that lumpy old couch. Ryuji’s starting to wonder.

Especially when Akira seems more focused on getting a rise out of him than he is in playing the goddamn game. He keeps shifting, keeps repositioning himself over and over again, and his weight is so warm and comfortable against him, and the fabric of his underwear does nothing to hide or contain his boner. He’s already beet red, so grateful that Akira’s facing forward, can’t see what he’s doing to him (is it on purpose? It can’t  _ not _ be, there is  _ literally _ no way.)

He finally just...grabs Akira by the hips, plants his chin on his shoulder, and grumbles “Stay  _ effin _ ’ still or I’m gonna confiscate that controller and make you watch me run your character into a wall or somethin’ for the next hour.”

“You wouldn’t  _ dare,” _ Akira says. From this angle Ryuji can just barely see him raise his eyebrows. He can also see (and feel) the red flush high in his cheeks. Huh. Looks like he’s not the only one into this.

Maybe it’s time to win gay chicken once and for all.

Akira settles down just a bit more; by accident or design, it lands Ryuji’s boner straight in the snug of his ass. When Ryuji tries to shift, Akira stays there, stubborn as all hell. He doesn’t complain about Ryuji’s hands on his hips, so Ryuji doesn’t move them.

He doesn’t complain when Ryuji shifts forward just a bare inch either, just to get a little relief. And...it feels so good. So he does it again, tiny little increments that leave a warmth in the pit of his stomach and desire spinning like mouse wheels in his brain.

It...does he notice? Does he care? Does he think it’s just another round of gay chicken? Ryuji squints at the back of Akira’s head like it’ll give up all his secrets if he stares hard enough.

The back of his neck is flushed bright red. 

Ryuji’s hands tighten on his hips, just a moment, throbs as he presses forward and swallows. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself.” Is it just him, or is Akira’s voice a little shaky?”

“I wanna play.”

“Hell no.” He jumps when Ryuji blows a grumpy puff of air into his ear. “I get to play until I die. Them’s the rules.”

“You never die during this bullshit,” Ryuji definitely does  _ not _ whine, snapping the band on Akira’s hips with his thumb just to feel him jump. Akira just shrugs, and hisses when he snaps it again. “You’re runnin’ in circles.”

“Yeah, well,” Akira mutters low in his throat, “stop distracting me.”

But...Ryuji really wants to distract him. Even beyond the bounds of gay chicken. He wants to be the reason that flush extends down to his neck. He wants to see if he can string Akira apart.

He bides his time, his thumbs idly stroking the skin above his waistband It doesn’t get any sort of rise out of him, but that’s okay. That’s not what he’s going for. Just a little longer, just until he gets into that zerg rush section— yeah. Okay. Here goes nothing.

Once he’s sure Akira is thoroughly distracted he trails a finger down the line of his abs very lightly, just barely, feels Akira stiffen as his finger lands— yeah. He’s hard too.

He doesn’t move or anything, just keeps it pressed there, murmurs “Watch out on your left,” as an enemy comes up to strike at Akira’s character. Slowly Akira unbends enough to fight it. Slowly he relaxes his shoulders back into Ryuji’s chest, rests all his weight on him, slouches low.

All his movements are perfectly telegraphed, finely calculated. None of them tell him to stop.

And when Akira keeps not telling him to stop...he continues.

At first he just drags the fabric along with him, scoots his fingertip a bare quarter inch to the right, then up, then to the left and back down, tiny overlapping triangles and rectangles and squares. Akira doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t acknowledge him, but his ears get even more red and his breath starts to come a little unsteady. He’s still doing way too well in game, too. Ryuji won’t have any of that.

When Akira starts running towards another boss battle, Ryuji’s touches grow bolder, painted in long strokes back and forth now, never leaving the head of his cock. He feels it twitch beneath his finger, feels Akira simultaneously shudder beneath him. There’s a damp spot growing beneath his touch; he brings his thumb up to swipe at it, just for a moment, excited enough that his heart pounds in his throat. 

He’s doing this. He’s winning gay chicken. He’s making it happen.

He doesn’t know how long he touches Akira like this, how long he keeps his forefinger running in arcs and circles and stars, tracing the blunt edge of his nail  up and down the head, but after a while he notices Akira’s grip on the controller has gone slack, his breathing unsteady. There's sweat beading at the side of his temple, and red painted all the way down to his chest. Ryuji swallows down the sharp pang of arousal that gives him. 

“You alright?” he asks, all casual and chill, like he's not just...touchin’ his best friend enough to make a wet patch the size of a soccer ball. Akira doesn’t answer him. Not until he turns, and Ryuji freezes, his thumb pressed delicately to the side of Akira’s cock, when he sees how heated and intense his gaze is.

This must be what it feels like to be a mouse under a cat’s claws, inches away from death. He can feel his heart beating in his throat, high and fluttery. He can feel his pulse beat in his cock, still pressed into the cleft of Akira’s ass, and it throbs as another spike of arousal punches into his gut.

Akira’s eyes lid halfway. “Get up,” he says, low and gravelly as he pushes himself off Ryuji’s lap. He staggers a bit, like his legs are unsteady, and when he turns to face him fully Ryuji can finally appreciate his work. His chest is heaving. There’s tiny shakes running up and down his arms; his boxers are tented, the wet patch on them dark and hugely obvious.The look in his eye….it’s unreadable. 

Ryuji swallows as he lifts himself up from the chair. He takes a step back as Akira advances, then another, like he’s backing down before an oncoming tidal wave, before a storm. Akira is a force of nature, and if Ryuji doesn’t bend to it it’ll break him.

The edge of the mattress hits the backs of his knees. He staggers, sitting down with a thump and a creak that makes him wince, but before he can get up Akira is  _ there _ .

In his lap.

And they— their cocks are just— 

And then Akira thrusts his hips forward, and rational thought vanishes. 

_ Fuck _ gay chicken. Akira pushing him down to the bed with a hand on each shoulder is  _ so much better _ , Akira shoving his thighs further apart, hooking them up and over his own legs, leaning down over him to swallow the noises he’s making when they grind together because it’s so good, the pressure and friction and heat is so good, he could cry, he could shout, he could wrap his arms around Akira and hold on tight and just whine his name, sob it into his ear over and over as his fingers dig divots in the curves of his shoulders, as he  _ comes _ —

In the calm after the storm, Akira’s tiny wounded noises are like an opioid overdose. He’s hooked, digs his fingers into his hips and pulls him harder against him and Akira unravels right then and there, head thrown back with a cry worthy of some of those amateur porn videos.

They give up on gay chicken after that. Mutual orgasms are much more fun. 

  
  



End file.
